A Treasury of Poems by an Old Friend
by WitchGirl
Summary: A small collection of ER poetry by a writer whose work will never be published due to her ‘disability’. Who is she, you ask? I made the mistake of mentioning her name, once, but you’d have known anyway... Now, there's some views of other charatcers
1. Too Young

A Treasury of Poems By an Old Friend  
  
Summary: A small collection of ER poetry by a writer whose work will never be published due to her 'disability'. Who is she, you ask? I made the mistake of mentioning her name, once, but you'd have known anyway... Difficult to summarize so just R/R!  
A/N: Look, this is another weird fic of mine (but aren't they all?) and again, I still think it's worth putting up.  
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Poem One: Too Young  
  
My parents always told me  
I was too young to play at night.  
"Don't go out alone," they'd say  
"You'll give yourself a terrible fright!"  
But then, I went out anyway  
And had myself some fun  
Me afraid of the bogeyman?  
I was seven; did they think I was one?  
  
My parents always told me  
I was too young to have fun.  
"You can't go out tonight!" they'd say  
"Your just way too young!"  
But then, I'd go out anyway  
And I was left unharmed  
Too young to go out alone, HA!  
But maybe I was wrong.  
  
My supervisor always said  
I was too young to do things yet  
"Sorry, maybe later," he'd say  
I was just his pet.  
But to him I listened  
Him I did admire  
I hoped someday to be like him  
My one true desire  
And so I tried to do things right  
And finally came the day  
Then, I took a patient, Paul Sobriki  
But something got in the way  
I was concerned he wasn't well  
And told Carter my suspicions  
"Don't worry, Luce, you can handle it,"  
That day ended my ambitions  
It ended my whole life in fact  
For Mr. Sobriki stabbed me  
They tried very hard to save us  
But no more my future could I see  
  
Must've been too young   
To play out side at night  
But sometimes, I really wonder  
Can you be too young to die?  
  
She put the pen down and stared at her writing. She smiled with satisfaction, but still knowing her work would never be published. She sighed. She wished her poems could be happier, but her heart was filled with sadness. Perhaps she could get the idea into a young writer's head and have them write it for her... Put it up on a web site or something... Maybe. And then, maybe somehow, John Carter would see her work. Her beloved John. She wished he was doing well, but knew better. Maybe her next piece could reach out to him. And maybe, just maybe, then he'd understand. And so, she tossed back her long blond hair and put the manuscript in a drawer with the rest of her treasured poems. 


	2. Blame

Here's the second poem. Now, a little more fan fictiony then poemy, but the poems are still there. Enjoy!  
  
Poem 2: Blame  
  
Blame it on the killer  
Blame it on the knife  
Blame it on anyone else  
But please don't blame yourself  
  
Blame is such a horrible word  
Blame puts you in such pain  
Blame can make you lose your mind  
Save yours wile you can.  
  
Blame it on the time elapsed  
Blame it on the day  
But please don't blame anyone else  
Blame makes you think you have to pay  
  
Pay for all the things wrong done  
Pay for my unjust fate  
But if I were to live your life today  
I'd pay for nothing but some blue cake  
  
The cake that I will never eat  
But can taste in my mouth  
But what's done is done, it won't change now  
Just because you blame yourself  
  
So blame the music played so loud  
Or blame the knife placed on the shelf  
But never, in your life will you  
Try to blame yourself  
  
She copied the poem again with exquisite penmanship on lovely stationery. She signed it 'By an Old Friend' and folded the letter. She placed it carefully in a baby blue envelope and wrote the name of the recipient in black pen. She called over a white dove perched by the windowsill with a coo not unlike the pigeon's own. It fluttered over and stuck out its scrawny little leg and let her tie it securely.  
"You have to take this directly to Carter," she whispered to the bird, "Directly. Make sure he doesn't see you," the dove made no movement to suggest it understood or even knew if she was speaking, but the minute she finished it flew off, over the woods and out of sight.  
  
"Carter, there's a letter for you!" Randi called.  
"Really? Who dropped it off?" Carter said, picking up the blue envelope. It had no return address, just the words in black ink: John Carter, in lovely calligraphy.  
"Uh, no one, it sort of just... Appeared?" Randi shrugged. Carter rolled his eyes and opened the letter. He walked down the hall, reading the letter at the same time. He read it through twice and stopped in the hall, staring at it.  
"Something wrong?" Jing-Mei asked, passing him in the hall.  
"Huh? No, no, just this letter... I'm just wondering who sent it..."  
"Why?"  
"Well, it's a poem..." he handed it to Jing-Mei. She read it through and an enigmatic smile appeared on her face. She returned it to him.  
"I have the strangest feeling that... Well, whoever the poet is, they sure know how you're feeling," Jing-Mei interrupted herself. As she began to walk off, Carter called after her.  
"Wait, what feeling?" he cried. She turned around, kept walking backwards and shrugged. She turned back around again.  
"What feeling?" Carter repeated, his voice writing, walking after her slightly. Jing-Mei stopped and turned to face him. The distance between them was about twelve feet and it was always so loud in the ER, but Carter heard her next words clearly.  
"Well, it's just that, if I didn't know better, I'd say that poem was written by someone who knows you well. Someone you taught. Someone who learned a lot from you... Someone who doesn't work hear anymore... Someone like Lucy Knight," at those words, all volume around Carter turned to an absolute minimum. The world seemed to slow and he realized, she was right. He shook his head and the world's speed and noise level rose again.  
"Nah," he sighed, and continued with his work.  



End file.
